


a lullaby, a kiss goodnight

by ashers_kiss



Series: Once Upon A Greek Mythology [2]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/F, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:30:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1209460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You want my help,” Aphrodite drawls, and her smile is sharp enough to cut, “to find your monster.”</p><p>“She is not a monster,” Psyche snaps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a lullaby, a kiss goodnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yunuen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yunuen/gifts).



> For yun, on her birthday. Happy birthday, darling. I hope you've been spoiled rotten and had a _glorious_ amount of cake, because Goddess knows you deserve it, you beautiful, insanely talented motherfucker. (And I _know_ you aced your German test today. *shakes pompoms*) ♥♥♥
> 
>  _Huge_ thanks to [niniadepapa](http://niniadepapa.tumblr.com/); this wouldn't be anywhere near decent if it wasn't for her help and encouragement.
> 
> The violence mentioned in the tags is quite mild, and appropriate to both Regina and Aphrodite (because I might as well admit that casting, everyone I've spoken to has already figured that out. Now just imagine Regina and Rumple trapped in a marriage together :D). And yes, this does mean I've genderswapped the role of Eros, without genderswapping Mulan herself. Set in the same verse as [dread is she](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1076884).
> 
> Title from [My Skin](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=izqSWCh5DKY) by Natalie Merchant.

Psyche does intend to beg (as perhaps her mother should have done, all those years ago). She waited on her knees before the altar for that very reason, but Aphrodite smirks at her, lips red as blood and somehow so familiar, and Psyche lifts her chin. (Her accursed stubborn pride, her father used to say. He may not have been entirely wrong.)

“You want my help,” Aphrodite drawls, and her smile is sharp enough to cut, “to find your monster.”

“She is not a monster,” Psyche snaps. (Too quick with her temper, her sisters used to scold, and taught her how to hold her tongue.) Aphrodite’s eyes narrow, and Psyche closes her own. Thinks of quiet laughter in the dark, of gentle touches and calluses that caught on her skin, and takes a breath, lowers her head. She needs to do this. She _will_ do this. “But yes. Please, my lady.”

The priests describe Aphrodite’s laughter as the sound of silver, of pleasant waves and birdsong. Psyche feels it as lashes against her back, pain slicing and immediate. It makes her gasp, bite back the noise that would escape, even as it forces her closer to the ground. She catches herself with hands already sliced open from her wanderings – she will not fall, not now. She will prove herself worthy if it takes the very flesh from her bone.

Which would seem to be a very real possibility, as Aphrodite’s every word hisses and stings along her invisible wounds. “And why would I help you?” she asks, circling Psyche where she kneels. The air is thick with the scent of roses, so powerful Psyche thinks she could choke on it without much effort. “You and your childish _vanity_ have cost me more than you could ever possibly comprehend.” Psyche can hear the sneer in her voice, the satisfaction dripping from her. She wants to protest – it was her mother who let her mouth run away with her, when Psyche was but a mere child and didn’t know any better. She bites down on the inside of her cheek; she will not sacrifice her mother to Aphrodite’s will, not when she could have spoken out as she grew.

Aphrodite huffs. Perhaps, some corner of Psyche’s mind wonders, she is not providing the reaction Aphrodite had hoped for. How annoying that must be, she thinks. “I should leave you here,” Aphrodite muses. For a moment, she almost sounds tender. A hand ghosts over Psyche’s hair, and she shivers, wants to curl into herself until such sheer _power_ passes her over. She sets her jaw and digs her fingers in against the stone floor. “Leave you to miss your monster, who couldn’t even bear to stay with you.” Her voice drops to a whisper that raises the hairs on Psyche’s arms. “Tell me, little one, why I shouldn’t do just that.”

Psyche’s breath stutters in her throat. She cannot think, her mind filled with nothing but bright, _blinding_ light (so like the moment before her lover disappeared, enough to make her breath stop altogether) and pure fear. Because, she wants to say. _Because._

*

Because when Psyche woke in that beautiful place, alone and still dressed in her funeral garb, a voice said, “Please, do not be afraid. I won’t hurt you,” and only laughed, shocked and soft, when Psyche spat back, “You are very convincing for someone who lurks in the shadows,” dizzy from spinning, from trying to identify where the voice came from. It seemed to be everywhere, without echoing, and its owner nowhere.

“Forgive me,” the voice continued. “I am…not prepared for you to see me yet.”

“Then perhaps I am not prepared to talk to you,” Psyche returned, even as it occurred to her that this was likely the monster she had been wed to.

That laugh again. “Understandable. I – I had hoped to talk with you some, but if you would prefer not to…”

Psyche waited, silent, until she thought she heard a sigh, and there was the sense of – of being left, of being alone in the beautiful, echoing space she stood in. “Wait,” she called, and when she received no reply, “Please.” In the space of a heartbeat, there seemed to be a…a presence, hesitant, hopeful, and Psyche wondered how she hadn’t felt it before. She swallowed and said, “Talking would be nice.”

The faint breeze felt like the brush of a hand against her cheek, and the voice said, “Of course, Princess.”

“Psyche,” she corrected, voice steady even as her hands trembled. Part of her wondered if that wasn’t simply the result of hearing her name repeated back to her.

*

Because when Psyche asked, months later, “What do you look like? What kind of scales do you have?” it was deliberate. There was a huff; she had learned that her companion (she could not think monster, not when she had heard the smile in that voice) could be a proud creature, and just as stubborn as she herself could be, whenever Psyche could coax it out.

“I do not have _scales_ ,” the voice protested. Psyche grinned.

“You do. I have heard them. You clink and clank when you think I cannot hear you.”

Another huff of air, frustrated. Psyche had discovered she quite enjoyed that noise. “It is _armour_.” There was a distinct clang, as if the voice’s owner had sat – to prove a point, perhaps.

Psyche sat up from her lounging by the fountain. “Armour? Why on _earth_ would you need armour, my darling voice?” It did not come out as flippant as she had intended, instead settling leaden in her belly. The silence did not aid the matter. “Voice?”

“My – family,” the voice said, “we are quite frequently violent. And I would keep you safe.” There was a noise, sharp and annoyed, and Psyche’s throat felt tight. “My duties can be dangerous,” the voice continued before she could ask anything more. “Not everyone is so eager to receive what I deliver.”

Psyche swallowed past the tightness, and wished, not for the first time, that she could _see_. That she could touch. “I don’t want you to come to any harm.”

Silence, again. It was _incredibly_ frustrating. Eventually, “I promise you, I will not.” The words were gentle, careful. As if she had surprised her companion in some way. “You needn’t worry about me.”

But I will, Psyche thought. It seemed her companion had left, though, effectively signalling the end of the subject – an awful habit that vexed Psyche more than she could say. She curled herself around the edge of the fountain, and on the verge of sleep, would have sworn she felt fingers comb through her hair, the barest whisper of, “Thank you,” breathed against her skin.

*

Because when Psyche was woken one night by the very distinct presence of _someone_ in her chamber, she wasn’t afraid. Her companion would not allow anyone to hurt her. She knew that, deep in her bones, just as she knew the scent of her mother’s hair, or the smiles of her nephews. Which left only one possibility, even to her sleep-addled mind. “Voice?” she called, drowsy and imperious.

There was hesitance, almost tangible, and then, “Yes?” And oh, but that was a _person_ , some being real and solid at her side. Psyche shifted on to her back, already sliding back towards sleep as she reached out. Her hand slid over cool metal – it _was_ armour – to curl around a neck, warm and _real_. She was not even aware of pulling the owner of that voice closer, but soft lips pressed against her own and she sighed, let the weight of _finally_ settle in her chest.

The muscles under her hand were tense, even as her own name was breathed against her skin. Psyche smiled in the dark. “Stay with me tonight,” she whispered. “Just here, next to me.”

“I cannot,” the voice, the _person_ insisted – because that was an entirely human body hovering above her, near humming with tension (well, perhaps not _entirely_ human, she amended; not after such tricks). Psyche allowed her hand to drift up, sink into soft, thick hair bound tight, and her companion’s breath caught.

“Please,” she said, murmured under the line of a jaw. “Please stay.”

It was a moment, long enough that she thought she would be left alone, before her companion rolled to lie beside her, fluid even in the dark, a hand settling over Psyche’s wrist. “As you wish,” the voice said, soft. Psyche turned in the same direction, and was asleep before she could realise that she could make out the barest silhouette.

She woke alone, sunlight streaming through the windows and a rose in her hand.

*

Because when she finally convinced her companion, her lover – her love, another voice whispered inside her mind, and Psyche couldn’t bring herself to deny it – to move beyond kisses, sweet and beautiful as they were, Psyche found herself undone in ways she could never have imagined, but she was never allowed to return the pleasure. Her companion continued to wear the damnable armour even when Psyche arched under the attentions of hands and mouth (sometimes _both_ ), bare as the day she was born and as unashamed.

“My pleasure comes from your satisfaction,” was the only answer she ever received when she complained.

Psyche grumbled, trying to push closer and being quite uncomfortably _jabbed_ , multiple times, by the hard plates. “That hardly seems fair.”

Fingers combed through her hair, untangling knots they had most likely put there themselves. “Aren’t you happy?” The question likely deserved more gravitas than Psyche could give at that moment, and she pressed her face against her companion’s throat, tried to gather her thoughts.

“I would like to – to see you,” she admitted, fingers trailing over grooves in the armour, markings she felt she would know if only she could _see_. “I would like to give you what you’ve given me. But I am happy!” she added, words spilling, tripping over themselves as her companion stiffened. “I’m quite addled right now, and you are _quite_ to blame, but I – I would say I’m happier than I have ever been.”

She would have sworn that was a smile, and _oh_ , what she would have given to see it. Then there were lips at her temple, whispering into her hair. “As am I.”

*

Because when her sisters came, when they looked around her home, looked at _her_ , at the smile on her face and the diamonds in her hair, Psyche was able to see the jealousy in their eyes. (And how could she explain, that the jewels had been a gift. Left for her one morning, and Psyche had scolded the air, “I don’t _need_ such things.” The warm breeze about her had been kind, and the voice, that beloved voice, had said, “But you deserve them. You deserve so much more. Let me, please,” and Psyche found she didn’t have the heart to protest.)

And still she let them needle at her, whisper and provoke her in the way only they could. They said “monster”, over and over again until Psyche thought she might scream. They drew the truth from her, that she had never seen her lover’s face. (Psyche bit her lip until it bled, would not give them more detail than that, no matter how hard they pressed. “Does he have a _tail_?” Orestias leaned forward as Euthalia’s eyes lit up, eager, and Psyche was reminded of nothing less than the kitchen cats when they spied a mouse to play with.)

Because they pulled her fears from her, dragged them out into the cold light of day, and painted such horrible pictures that Pysche’s hands shook even as she slammed the door behind them. Because her knees suddenly wouldn’t hold her weight, and she didn’t know how long she spent on the floor.

*

Because she allowed their envy to infest her heart, and she would never forgive herself for that.

*

Because she almost removed the lamp from its hiding place, so many times, as she waited. But then it was dark, and callused hands cupped her face, a smiling mouth seeking hers, and Psyche was whispering, “Please, please, _please_ ,” tucking her fingers under the neck of the breastplate. Her companion froze with that mouth against Psyche’s throat, and Psyche twisted, trailed kisses and fingers over whatever skin she could. She had always been persuasive, even as a child, used to her every whim being granted. “Please, my love.”

Just once, she wanted to say. Just once, so she could _see_. So she could make her apologies in advance.

A moment, and that voice breathed, “As you wish,” into her skin, thrilling down Psyche’s spine to pool hot and thick in her belly in a way that had nothing to do with her secret plans. She fumbled for the latches and ties she had seen on her father’s men, could not stop the frustrated whine that escaped her when she found none. Her companion laughed, soft, nosing at Psyche’s jaw. And suddenly the armour was _gone_ , and Psyche’s hands encountered nothing but skin.

Skin, and _curves_ , of a kind she was _intimately_ familiar with; a moan caught in her throat, made her words ridiculously breathy. “You’re a – a – ”

“Shhh,” her companion murmured, drawing her into a kiss. Psyche allowed herself to linger, allowed her companion to press her into the sheets. Then she pushed up, and when her companion backed off – immediate and concerned – Psyche flipped them, so her companion thudded on to her back with much less grace than she – _she_ – had ever done anything in their time together. The shock fairly radiated from her, and this time, Psyche laughed.

“I believe I owe a debt,” she said, pressing a kiss to that mouth, quick, slipping away before reaching hands caught hold of her.

“Psyche – ” her companion began. Whatever else there was (oh, she could hear the rebuke building, she knew that tone so very well), it was lost in the quiet noise she made at the first touch of Psyche’s mouth to her skin. Skin that had always been hidden before, that still tasted faintly of precious metal (had Psyche been forced to, she would have said gold), and as Psyche descended lower, those noises came much more frequently, shocked and delighted as fingers twisted in the sheets.

Later, much later, when they were both breathless, boneless, and the darkness had not quite reached its peak, her companion reached for her, tangled their fingers together and tugged Psyche into yet another kiss, lazy and _content_. Psyche hummed, shifting closer, draping herself over her companion until she laughed, low and soft, as if she had no energy to be any louder.

She didn’t intend to lie there, trading kisses until her companion slipped into sleep. Psyche didn’t move, listening to their heartbeats. Now would be the perfect opportunity – likely her only opportunity – and yet. And yet Psyche still didn’t move. Could not _make_ herself move. What she had planned to do, what her sisters’ voices, lingering in her mind, still urged her to do, could not be undone. And it terrified her.

Then her companion shifted, the arm about Psyche’s waist slipping away, and she did not give herself time to think.

Her hands shook as she lit the lamp, her back to the bed, and Psyche forced herself to breathe, to steady herself as the flame caught. Such a small thing for such a momentous task, dim enough that Psyche could hardly make out the corners of the room, but enough. It would have to be enough, or risk waking her companion. And that, she could not do.

Psyche opened her eyes, lifted her chin, and thought, I do love you. Then she turned.

That she didn’t drop the lamp was a miracle itself. She barely stifled whatever noise she tried to make, hand clamped over her mouth. But oh, how deserved a reaction it _was_. The girl – the _woman_ sprawled across her bed was the very _definition_ of beauty, leaving whatever claim Psyche had had to the word a pale imitation. She wasn’t conscious of moving closer, just that she had to see _more_. It was – beyond impossible to take everything in at once. Her eyes could not focus on any one feature, and oh, her heart – her poor heart, trying to beat out of her chest in sheer _longing_. This was beauty, here before her, encapsulated in miles of smooth skin and long, lithe limbs defined by the curve of muscle (a warrior’s body, even in this pathetic light), in the sharp jaw and long lashes that brushed her cheeks, in the hair that had spread itself out across the sheets, black as night – and oh, oh, how could Psyche have missed them, she was a _fool_ , because those were _wings_ , as dark as her hair and so obviously soft, if she was brave enough to touch. (In that moment, she remembered the breeze, comforting and warm, though it wouldn’t make sense until much later; her mind was far too overwhelmed to make such connections right now.)

This was her companion, her beloved Voice. The one she owed so much of her happiness to, who had done nothing but try to ensure her comfort and pleasure. And Psyche – Psyche needed to show her, needed to kiss her. Needed to _touch_.

Her hands were obviously not as steady as she believed. Psyche couldn’t tear her eyes from those wings, had to know if they were truly as soft and glossy as they looked – she reached out, so utterly focused, and the lamp trembled, oil spilling hot over her wrist and the inside of her companion’s thigh.

Time seemed to slow. Psyche tucked her hand against her chest as her companion cried out, and Psyche looked up in time to be caught by wide eyes of the sweetest brown she had ever seen. In that moment, her companion _glowed_ , and Psyche’s breath caught in her throat, leaving her lightheaded.

Then her companion spoke, a whispered “No,” and Psyche finally saw the horror in those eyes. The betrayal. She reached out again, the beginning of “Please” on her lips, but her companion was no longer glowing, she was _shining_ , until the light filled the entire room, every corner and every crack in the wall ablaze with it, so bright Psyche had to squeeze her eyes shut. Her vision burned white, blinding, terrifying.

Then it was gone, and Psyche’s entire being ached so fiercely with its absence that she almost didn’t realise her companion was gone too.

*

Psyche doesn’t say any of this to Aphrodite. Those memories are _hers_ , and if they are all she is to have then she will keep them, safe and secret, to herself.

Instead, she lowers her head further; the floor is cool against her skin, and she allows herself some small comfort from it. “Please, my lady,” she says, and lets Aphrodite hear the tears she cannot choke back. She can have those, if they will buy her help. “I am begging you.”

There is a moment, stretching out further than Psyche can stand, and she almost takes it all back, begs Aphrodite to kill her and be done with it already, when a hand tangles itself in her hair and _pulls_ , wrenching her back. Psyche yelps as her back is bowed, forced into a painfully punishing angle, and she only just stops herself from reaching up for that hand, from trying to free herself.

“Not yet, you aren’t,” Aphrodite says into her ear. Psyche doesn’t try to hide the way she flinches; she can _hear_ the grin in Aphrodite’s voice, sharp and deadly. “But you will.”

**Author's Note:**

> They have a happy ending, [I promise](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psyche_%28mythology%29)! ...Eventually.


End file.
